Author: John Berryman

Fresh-shaven, past months & a picture in New York Of Beard Two, I did have Three took off. Well. . […]

There is an eye, there was a slit. Nights walk, and confer on him fear. The strangler tree, the dancing […]

I am the little man who smokes & smokes. I am the girl who does know better but. I am […]

Seedy Henry rose up shy in de world & shaved & swung his barbells, duded Henry up And p. a.’d […]

When worst got things, how was you? Steady on? Wheedling, or shockt her & You have been bad to your […]

Some good people, daring & subtle voices And their tense faces, as I think of it I see sank underground. […]

A Small Dream It was only a small dream of the Golden World, Now you trot off to bed. I’ll […]

Dapples my floor the eastern sun, my house faces north, I have nothing to say except that it dapples my […]

Plop, plop. The lobster toppled in the pot, Fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny, Glowing fire-red, Succulent, and on the whole […]

Three ‘coons come at his garbage. He be cross, I figuring porcupine & took Sir poker Unbarring Mr door, & […]

Foes I sniff, when I have less to shout Or murmur. Pals alone enormous sounds Downward & up bring real. […]

Through the forest, followed, Henry made his silky way, No chickadee was troubled, small moss smiled On his swift passage. […]

If we sang in the wood (and Death is a German expert) While snows flies, chill, after so frequent knew […]

Filling her compact & delicious body With chicken páprika, she glanced at me Twice. Fainting with interest, I hungered back […]

Whence flew the litter whereon he was laid? Of what heroic stuff was warlock Henry made? And questions of that […]

General Fatigue stalked in, & a Major-General, Captain Fatigue, and at the base of all Pale Corporal Fatigue, And curious […]

Full moon. Our Narragansett gales subside And the land is celebrating men of war More or less, less or more. […]

He lay in the middle of the world, and twicht. More Sparine for Pelides, Human (half) & down here as […]

In the night-reaches dreamed he of better graces, Of liberations, and beloved faces, Such as now ere dawn he sings. […]

He published his girl’s bottom in staid pages Of an old weekly. Where will next his rages Ridiculous Henry land? […]